


Desolate and Ready To Kill

by Schgain



Series: Białowieża [2]
Category: Darkwood (Video Game)
Genre: Content-Typical Gore, POV Second Person, Several Mentions Of Wolfman Wanting To Eat People And Sometimes Going Through With It, Wolfman Centric, slight unreality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 10:44:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13522581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schgain/pseuds/Schgain
Summary: The Wolfman at first was not an ordinarily insane man, but an extraordinarily sane wolf.





	Desolate and Ready To Kill

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a hell of a lot of speculation, honestly. But you know how it is with these kinds of games. If we knew everything, they wouldn't be as scary! 
> 
> Title comes from [Raised By Wolves](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m2mZ78EBLvs) by Voxtrot. 
> 
> As always, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated!

Run. Prowl. Sleep. Watch. Hunger.

The beasts on two legs. One big, two small. Howling. Pain. Hunger. Pig. Chicken. More pain, more hunger. Feathers. Taste of blood. 

Run. Watch.

A beast on two legs, holding something. A loud noise. Run. Run. Hurt. 

Mushrooms. Desperation. Hunger. Hunger again, hunger threefold. Eat.

Pain. Splitting. Broken leg. Can't run. Dirt. A hole. Sounds. Claw out. 

Howling. Screaming. New sounds. Burning. Fire. Paws breaking and healing, too fast to lick your wounds. 

A beast on two legs, holding something. A different beast. A different something. He raises the something at you, and you run away on destroyed limbs. He walks back to his den. There are parts where you can see inside. 

You look inside. You see a deer. You see a lynx. You see a boar. You see a wolf. You see a wolf again. You see a wolf threefold. 

Your head spins. You whimper. You need mushrooms.

You stagger into the great and powerful wood and sniff out truffles. Relief. Bliss. 

More pain follows, and you scream.

When you open your eyes the beast on two legs is back. But you are faster than him and you are sharper than him, and he does not expect you. Your jaws find his neck and its him who screams next. You bear down on him, bring him to the leafage on the forest floor. You, claws and fangs and weight and fear. Him, all anger and unbalance and hurt and hunger. As you wrestle, you take what he is holding and yank it out of his paws. When part of you holds it wrong it knocks you back and he screams, but it's swallowed under the loud bang, and you lay your ears flat. You smell blood. 

The beast is dead. 

You keep his things. Your pelt is sparse now and the wood is cold. You fumble into his pelts with a lacking grace. The smell of his blood is intoxicating. A slightly hysterical coyote laugh erupts from you.

Your mouth changes. You sing a new song. Words, you know them. Complex thoughts addle your brain and you feel the need to eat, to find mushrooms. But you can't do that now. 

Shirt, pants. Boots. Jacket. Overcoat. There's a bullethole in it with his blood. His body is steaming in the snow. You're ravenous. 

With your new, articulated wrists and dexterous paws, you bear down on him again, and eat until your belly is heavy and your mouth is sour with blood. 

You walk on old paths that your feet know enough that your brain doesn't have to think about it, and you try not to think about having to walk upright now. There are houses in these woods, and sometimes the houses would have chickens or game hens or meat pies on the windowsills. You were a hungry wolf then, like you are now, and you would not turn down a meal. 

The house is a cadaver of itself now, a corpse picked clean by birds. Charred wood make up a cast-open ribcage, and ash and soot replace the sweet guts inside. Your stomach roils and you gnash your teeth. The house is burned. The see-saw sits, only slightly damaged. The metal hinge creaks in a ghost of a breeze. One side goes up, and the other down. 

"Good fucking riddance!" You screech at the house, snarling and snapping at air. Birds fly from diseased trees at the sudden noise, and you make like them, vacating this dead area for...

Less dead areas.

You find a man who wears a collar like a dog. You pull off his tags when you bite his neck and it snaps like a chicken, all clean and easy. The name is not one you recognize, but you are not one to dabble in names. Wolves don't have that sort of thing, you know. And you're still a wolf, twisted you may be into a parody of yourself.

He has a gun. A better gun. You take it, and feel the weight of it in your paws. The barrel is warm, and you find it doesn't have a full clip. 

Forty paces away you find the remains of what he'd been shooting at. The thing is split open, belly to cranium, armed with a plaguelike maw that stretches with no abandon. Parts of it still wriggle and you stomp them out under your boot. Your lip curls. 

You'd never paid attention to this wood further than what it could supply for you, and even now you are reluctant to do so. But staring at the thing, you are faced with a feeling that you dislike immensely. 

Curiosity.

This town would chew you up and spit you out should you let it; these places with their hogs and their hens have no place for a hound of your pedigree. You know this the moment you step within bounds of their puny civilization and people turn to look at you, whisper behind their cupped hands. 

When you meet the Doctor, he smells of dead air and city smoke. He looks at you and asks about your condition. His fingers itch for his tools; but you are not abated by any beast, and no twitchy-fingered human is going to cut you open. You snap at his hand when it tries to card your fur and he tells you what they do to strays in the city. You tell him what wolves do to men in the wood, and that scares him to silence. 

 

Later, much later, when the morning is moon-dim, you see a man stumble out of the Doctor's rabbit hutch of a house. His wide-brimmed hat and wide-eyed gauntness strike you with a familiar desperation. When he comes closer he does not see you, but you can smell him.

He smells of death, like all men here. But he also smells of mushrooms. So he is deader than the rest then, you surmise. You wonder what he'll turn into, besides a corpse that doesn't know it's not supposed to walk. When you grin, it's dog-faced and malicious. But you have no time for petty morality or human insanity- you are an apex predator. When you had nothing but your instinct and your nose to guide you, you had no solution to your problems but to bite at them. Now your solutions are part of a brain not wholly your own, and your bite is a well-stocked gun. 

Damn that dead man, you think, and your coyote grin widens. You decide you like him, for all the ways a wolf can like a man. Perhaps later, you will decide you hate him.

_You do, indeed, decide you hate him not five nights later when he comes to you in your hideout._

_"Well look at this, ladies and gentlemen!"_

_You turn to the stuffed and mounted bastards that had done the very same act to your brothers._

_"This carcass thinks he's better than you! This rotten pile of meat must be delusional."_

_You turn towards the dead man, teeth barely between snarl and smile. You adjust your coat. Damn him, you think. Damn him._

_"Are you pretending to be human, or are you just cracking jokes?"_

_But your friend the Stranger is armed with a box of crayon scribbles and a little electronic game. Something floods you when you see yourself in the drawings, and the beasts you had stolen pies from. You see the red see-saw and the red mushrooms and the red fire and suddenly all you see is red. You howl, half mad and all feral, and knock the box to the ground. The drawings are scattered on the floor and he is shocked, just a moment, before he stoops down to shuffle them into a pile and scoop them up. Your tail thrashes against your leg, and you resist the urge to kick him, to bite his face off, to tear him to pieces and remind him he's dead._

____

____

_"Get out," you scream, "get the fuck out!"_


End file.
